


A Pound of Cure(iosity)

by Darklady



Series: Isis and Mittens [2]
Category: Downton Abbey, Tommy and Tuppence - Agatha Christie
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Crack, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:02:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24374722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darklady/pseuds/Darklady
Summary: Thomas and Peter get handed a queer bill.They aren't going to stand for that sort of rough trade!Another ‘Isis and Mittens’ Tale (Which still lacks Isis and mostly lacks THAT CAT.)
Relationships: Thomas Barrow/Original Character(s)
Series: Isis and Mittens [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1759939
Comments: 6
Kudos: 24





	A Pound of Cure(iosity)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alex51324](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alex51324/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Halo Effect](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19892077) by [Alex51324](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alex51324/pseuds/Alex51324). 



> Again I apologize to Alex51324, who is both the owner of the Halo Effect series and just generally a MUCH better writer. Quarantine has dissolved my brain and my only pleasure seems to be rereading good fic and then messing around in other peoples sand boxes. I know better – but I don’t seem to do better. It’s an addiction. 
> 
> ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
> 
> _This is 90% an excuse to indulge in an unpopular fandom._
> 
> _I am playing very fast and loose with dates. In 1920 the first gas station in England was not even an idea, and the first Tommy and Tuppence book had not been published. So what? This is ‘off universe’ already, so let’s just assume that this is an ‘early’ case for all involved. Frankly, I need to have Matthew Crawley alive far more than I need to match Christie canon. I’m also in no way suggesting that the Barrow/Fitzroy household stays in the auto-service industry. Maybe a ‘real’ petrol station moves into town and they close shop. That’s for Alex51324 to decide. As for Lady Edith? I have no idea how she got into this story. She showed up on her own mid-story and it just seemed too much bother to kick her out, so… whenever this is she is around. No idea beyond that. You invent your own timeline._
> 
> _Tommy and Tuppence are the creation of Agatha Christie. Their full names are Thomas Beresford and Prudence Beresford (née Cowley). As Crawley is the Grantham family name and Cowley is the name Christie used for her detective I’m overlooking the slight spelling difference because plot convergence is slightly less confusing than two nearly identical names – both of which make me think of a certain ex-angel . (Anyone interested in a Good Omens cross? Repetitive naming is repetitive.) And given that Tommy and Tuppence are themselves Christie’s crack fan fic of other mystery writers… does this make three levels of meta?_
> 
> _FYI – I could not find out firmly if gasoline came in liters or imperial gallons. Since the first gas station in England wasn’t founded before 1923 (and that was a club thing with no reference to if it even did charge a fee) I’ve decided to go with what was used on the price list I found and the best info I could get on tank size. If it’s wrong? Well – Peter would have no way to know how business would evolve._
> 
> _Also – on recheck the ‘Crackler’ was forging one-pound notes. Sorry, but even for 1923 that seemed rather unprofitable – not to mention less shocking. I increased the value so the gang could support a country hideout. The past is a different country. In my case very different._
> 
> _None of this matters. I’m only here for the crack._
> 
> _Spelling is American where it isn’t just plain wrong. Blame dyslexia._
> 
> _No infringement intended. Like Peter, I’m mostly ‘armless._

A Pound of Cure(iosity)

Another ‘Isis and Mittens’ Tale (Which still lacks Isis and mostly lacks THAT CAT.)

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

*** *** ***  
“Bastards!”

Peter was standing on top of the tank ladder, empty shoulder jammed under the top bar for stability while his good arm lifted the measuring rod.

“Gone?” Thomas asked. Which was rather stupid, since obviously a fair portion of petrol was blatantly missing or Peter would not have troubled to check the outside slide gage in the first place.

“Down twenty gallons. Might be a bit more.” Peter twisted the rod back onto the hook and started his careful climb down. “Could you recheck the slate?”

Thomas did, but just to prove willing. Both he and Peter had given it a look before even checking the fill. Nope. No notes beyond the fill for Anders Farm and that had been paid for back on Wednesday. Young Mr. Anders had stopped to chat when Thomas had driven Lady Mary down to the vicarage, and had handed over three shillings and sixpence for the farm’s petrol ‘borrowing’.

Local farms with tractors felt easy helping themselves to the hose and noting their purchase on the slate nailed up beside the door. To date the system had been working fine. If one of the locals had turned dishonest? The business couldn’t take losses. 

Thomas supposed they could get a lock for the tank, but that would bring it’s own problems.

“No sign of anything else missing”. Peter was in the shed now, checking the stock. There wasn’t much – mostly just some spare tools – but still the contents would be missed if stolen.

“Twenty gallons is too much.” 

“Anything’s too much, but half a pound?” That was near a day’s wage.

“Too right. But I mean you can’t put that much petrol in a tractor.”

“Fair enough.” Peter meditated on that for a bit. “Maybe a lorry? We get a few.”

Thomas considered. “Not likely. Not enough.”

“What?”

“A lorry holds more.”

“Maybe he just topped up?”

“Can’t see it. I mean – if a bugger needed the fuel he might take it. I follow that. But the boss pays for the petrol, so why stop before need?” Plus why stop here, when the stable in town sold at the same price and had the benefit of being alongside the pub. Lorrymen kept accounts at both. 

“OY!” A young voice came over the back hedge.

“Hi Ned.” 

“Glad I caught you.”

The lad was on his bicycle, so not likely a customer, but he often liked to check out whatever motor Thomas was driving. Thomas never minded. Ned was a nice lad, sharp as mustard, and his honest interest was easier than some of the motor snobs who came by on holiday.

Ned pushed his bicycle around the shrubbery, leaving it up against the side wall. “Mind if I get some air?”

“Pumps in the shed. Help yourself.”

“Much obliged.” Being familiar, it only took him a minute to get the gear. “Oh, and my dad’s wanting.” He pointed two fingers at the metal cans hanging under the eves.

“That’s a florin, and three pence more for the cans since he hasn’t returned the last bunch.”

“Sorry. That’s on me. Should have brought them back with me.” He held out two shillings. All he had, Thomas assumed.

Peter nodded. “You’re good for it. Just bring them back when you come by tomorrow.”

“That’s four cans now!”

“You’ve got to forgive Thomas. He’s irked because we’ve had a bit of a problem with the slate.”

“More than a bit. Some bugger took off with twenty gallons and left not a penny. Might have to start locking the pump.”

“Thomas, don’t start gossip.”

“Why ever not? If it gets around maybe the thief will pay up if he doesn’t want to drive all the way to Rippon for fuel.” Pay up - or – more likely – be ratted out. Village gossip could be vicious when village convenience was threatened.

“I bet it was those incomers.”

“Incomers?” There hadn’t been any new arrivals in the area. Not that Thomas had heard about. Between the inside staff, the outside staff, and the post office crew Thomas thought he had a firm grip on all Downton happenings, and what he didn’t see Peter usually picked up from odd jobs in town.

“A few folks staying in the pub, but no one out this way.” Peter answered the unasked query.

“Three black cars of them, gone up to Haxby Park that was. The folks up at John Brenner’s pater saw them and said they looked an odd lot.”

Odd could mean that, or it could just mean London folks, but either way new gentry could explain the willingness to help themselves to other folk’s goods. Likely they thought to settle up when they called on the Granthams. Plus three cars would explain the petrol, and newcomers could easily miscalculate the drive up and find their tanks getting low.

Thomas nodded. “Might be them, might not. I think I best drive up and pay a call.” 

Yes. That would work. He could check out the arrivals. If they looked decent he could have a word with the new butler - or housekeeper if there was no butler – and explain nicely how matters worked. They would likely pay up. If they hadn’t brought their own mechanic – and fewer folks did these days – Thomas would be someone to keep on the fair side of.

*** *** *** 

“Was Haxby Park .” Thomas slid a handful of loose change – sixpence and smaller – onto the table.”

Peter carefully entered the payment into their account book.

Technically the petrol was Lord Grantham’s – or at least the tank might be. The estate had moved up from two-gallon jerry cans when the demand for driving went beyond what the smithy in town could easily provide. Crawley House had at least two cars on the property now that Mrs./Nurse/Matron Crawley was driving. Those were technically not really Thomas’s responsibility (for all that he ended up doing more of the maintenance than was properly his job). Plus Lady Edith drove up more weekends than not. Tom-who-was-the-previous came down on the way to London as much as he went north, or so it seemed, and he had his own car now. Of course he did, the plumy bastard. And the lot of them had infinite friends and all those friends now had cars. They had put the gravity tank behind the garage until the newspapers covered a series of nasty fires and… well… Lord Grantham wasn’t the only one who didn’t want a house full of explosive vapors. (Thomas hadn’t much liked hauling loads of explosive cans either.) 

The tank had ended up set up beside the shed he and Peter had still been renting. Now would always be renting. But then there came the trouble that… putting a tank out there where everyone could see it meant that… everyone could see it.

Once the road had been improved there was the constant problem of trippers. Bad enough that the guests kept Thomas hopping, but road excursions had become quite the fad and on a warm summer weekend one couldn’t go an hour without some roadster-owning town type honking and shouting and wanting to ‘borrow a bit of petrol please’.

Generosity was one thing. Feeding half the motor beasts in the county was quite another.

The shed had developed a sign: Barrow and Fitzroy Motor Services. These days Thomas and Peter paid the petrol truck and on weekends Peter sat down at the shed and made a penny a gallon on the excursionists. 

The shed held oil and cheap cigarettes. They kept small parts and, if necessary, Peter could send a lad running up for Thomas, who could – actual work allowing – drive down and get the unlucky toffs back on the road. At the least give them a lift to the town pub until their cars could be rendered once again roadworthy. It wasn’t much of a business, but it was theirs… and it had been growing.

“Good they paid. I thought we’d have to open an account.”

Most of the locals ran on account, which worked until it didn’t. Collecting from a shop or cottage was easy. Collecting from ones ‘betters’… sometimes was not.

“Don’t think there is anyone to run credit.”

That brought Peter’s head up.

“Very strange encounter. I was planning on driving around the back, to ask for the butler or whomever managed the staff, but… I didn’t get much past the gate. A big guy came out – in a flashy suit not livery – and demanded to know my business.”

Peter tensed… because putting Thomas’s back up was always a recipe for domestic misfortune.

“Fair enough.”

“Not the way he put it. I can tell you, I didn’t like that and I didn’t like the idea of getting out of the car.”

Right. Rain had be falling off an on for most of the later afternoon. Nothing heavy, but enough to risk mud on Thomas’ well-polished boots.

“Don’t fret. I kept my manners. Introduced myself properly as the Barrow of Barrow and Fitzroy as well as chauffer of Grantham … which I figured would get a decent invite.”

“I’m anticipating that it did not.”

“Not half. It got me an even bigger bugger in an even sharper suit who was even less welcoming. Had to suggest that the constabulary might interest themselves in unpaid petrol.”

“Harsh.”

“So that’s when things got really strange.”

“Thomas. Do not tell me you ran over someone with the car. No matter how rude they were.”

“I would never!” Thomas huffed. “Might damage the finish.”

“Granted, you do keep the polish up.”

“No. What happened is that the first guy paid me.”

“How is that strange?”

“He pulled out a bloody note. Just held it out and said ‘here you go’ like it was nothing.”

Which, yes, would be different. Few folks at the service level carried notes, and if you paid like that you would absolutely want to be sure of all your change.

“But that’s not the strangest bit. While he was standing there, hand near the window, the second guy knocked the note well away. Told the first man to stopper it and get in the house. Then he told me to wait and he’d be back with my money.”

“Which he did do.” Peter had the coins in front of him.

“Yes. He went into the house and came back a few minutes later with what you see.”

“So what’s the strange bit?”

“This.” Thomas reached into his pocket and pulled out a damp and crumpled paper.

“Fuck me! That is a five pound note!” Peter had been thinking one pound. One-pound notes sometimes came by. Fives? No one normal – no working person - carried that much money casually.

“Exactly. When the first man went to put it in his pocket it missed. The note fell under the wheel and the idiot didn’t even notice or pick it up.”

“But you did.”

That earned Peter an ‘are you a blooming nutter’ look – because while Thomas hated mud he would risk mud to his neck for a banknote.

Peter took the bible from the bookcase.

“I’m not going to return it! I don’t care what that book says!”

“Of course not.” Peter was honest – but he wasn’t stupid. Plus a pound was a pound and this was five bloody pounds. This was a months housekeeping or half a good suit or new shirts for both of them with ties beside. Smoothing the note, he laid it down between two pages before closing the volume and setting it flat on the side table. “I’m just putting it away to dry flat. Easier to spend if it looks fresh.”

*** *** *** 

“Peter?” Thomas called at the doorway. Where was that man? He thought Peter had gone ahead while Thomas stopped by the back courtyard. Mrs. Patmore had ordered urgent supplies sent up via train from London and so Thomas and the least of the autos had been dispatched on collection duty. Normally Thomas might have grumped over being servant to servants (never refused – but when alone he would have complained) but as this had given him the chance to spare Peter the long walk from the Henderson’s farm? Fair enough. “Where are you? Peter?”

Thomas let himself though their front door.

“Oh God. Peter!” 

What the hell had happened? The sitting room was… well, it was wrecked. There was no other word. Every piece of furniture was upended, every drawer was askew, and every book or bit of decoration had been swept from the shelves to pile like dry leaves on the floor.

“Thomas?”

“Thank god!” At least Peter was unharmed. Although? Thomas regained his wits. Why wouldn’t Peter be fine? Whatever had happened – and most clearly a lot had happened – it couldn’t have been accomplished in the ten minutes required for Thomas and Andy to unload groceries.

“I don’t know how…” Peter stuttered out. He spun around, arms out in confusion.

“Some animal?” Although what animal could have come though a locked door? Could even a bear have tossed things so? And for that matter, how would a bear get to Downton at all?

“The kitchen.” Peter stopped again.

Thomas went there. If possible, and how it could be possible Thomas was at a loss to imagine, the kitchen was in worse shape than the parlor. Not only the furnishings and the dishes were tossed but even the bags in the pantry had been slashed and shaken. Thomas hadn’t seen destruction like this since? Well, he started to say ‘the black market’ but even then he hadn’t wrecked the bloody truck.

“Mittens?” Peter called.

A faint hiss came from under the ice box.

Thomas bent down to check. “He’s good.” Scared out of eight lives, by the look of it, but alive.

At Thomas’s urging Mittens made his careful way into his favorite person’s arms.

“Easy now.” He stroked the cats ruffled fur.

The cat streached. There was blood on its claws.

“Take him.” He passed Mittens to Peter.

Thomas picked up a long knife. “I’ll check upstairs.” Heaven help anyone he found up there.

Upstairs it was worse. Not only were the sheets taken from the beds but even the pillows coverlets had been pulled off. Damn whoever or whatever did this! Peter had worked all winter on that Welsh Quilt, cutting blocks from the salvaged army blankets and clamping the sections so they could be stitched one handed. He had been so proud to provide their bed with such beautiful warmth, and now it was soiled.

“Thomas!” Peter called from the hallway. “My coat!”

Thomas followed to the hall closet, that being where they both kept their better outfits. The wardrobes the cottage had come with were so small that, even with Peter’s pretense of keeping his clothes in the tiny second bedroom, the extra spaced served as home to out-of-season gear. Peter’s beautiful loden overcoat, the one that cost a quarters wages, was inside out on the floor. The lining was ripped away from the self. It looked more like a rag pile than Harrod’s honest tailoring.

“I’m so sorry.”

“Not you as done it.” Peter lifted a chair back to it’s four legs. “Look, this is madness but…”

“Call the filth?”

“If we must but…”

“Right. Not on. Not for us.” No matter what the cause, once the constabulary set a black boot past the doorstep it wouldn’t be a housebreaker they’d be coming after. 

“I know.” Peter slid a drawer back into the dresser. “Let’s clean up what we can, and hide what we must, and then? Well, if we have to we can go to Mr. Crawley after dinner.”

Thomas stopped, confused. “Crawley?”

“He’s a solicitor, right? We hand him a pound and he has to keep out secrets. That’s the law.”

Well, yes, in theory, but… “Do we even have a pound?” Peter had done the book work yesterday, and they’d had plenty then, but as Thomas could see the open front of the salvaged pie safe that served in place of a real safe?

“Yeh, actually.” Peter shook out a pillow and rested it on the now-positioned chair. “With your month’s pay and what I’ve had recently from the picking and with what came from the petrol? We had over forty pounds in the house.”

Lord, they had, hadn’t they? Two men working with two sets of wages had left them well ahead this season. Thomas hadn’t noticed. He generally left the accounting to Peter, who fretted less, but he should have noticed that they were getting to where they were worth housebreaking.

“And that’s?”

“Safe as churches.”

If it was? Well, maybe Thomas would be giving thanks in said churches.

“What with Henderson’s starting at dawn I knew I couldn’t get to the Post Office but to be honest I didn’t feel good leaving so much cash behind. I took it over to Mrs. Patmore and had her lock it up in the downstairs safe.”

Relief poured over Thomas. Carson could be nasty, but he was bone honest.

*** *** *** 

“So that’s it, Mr. Crawley.”

Thomas did his best to look earnest while Peter finished the tale.

Carson had frowned when they had presented themselves at the kitchen and asked to speak to Mr. Matthew Crawley ‘professionally’, but after the usual interrogation had eventually sent Andy up with a message. Mr. Crawley himself had been remarkably gracious, citing his duty to take all plaintiffs. Personally, Thomas suspected the man was bored with farming and liked it when people remembered he had been perfectly successful even before falling heir to a title. Now he was looking a bit alarmed, but not so much so that they had to worry he would override caution and call in the bluecoats.

“You have no idea who could have done this, Peter?”

“No sir.”

“What about? One hates to judge harshly but there are vagrants at Haxby Park.”

“Not any more, sir.” Thomas answered this time. “They’ve moved on.”

“Had to”. Peter twisted at his cap as he tried to chart a safe but honest narrative. “Young Ned told me that Brenner senior saw the new folks come in. Not to mention that most of the casual workers were down at Henderson’s same as me. There’s hiring now so no need to steal.”

“Strange.” Mathew Crawley stood. “I’ll ask the neighborhood if anyone else has been hit. Beyond that I’m sad to say I don’t know what I can do for you, since you insist you don’t want to call the police.”

“Not unless it gets… not so long as there is any choice. No.” 

Wasn’t Lady Mary’s husband supposed to be the clever one? Didn’t he understand why that would be disaster? Evidently not, from his gormless look.

“Then?” It was a clear dismissal.

Thomas gave a slight bow. “Thank you for your time, sir.”

“OH!” Peter turned back halfway to the door. “I almost forgot to pay you.”

“I hardly think there is need.”

“Very much need! If you don’t take our bit then you aren’t properly our solicitor and that matters with crime.”

Crawley chuckled. “It does indeed, Peter.”

“One pound do?” 

“Quite nicely. As my legal advice in return I would suggest you leave the rest here until you are sure the neighborhood has not developed a burglar.”

“Quite right.”

Peter passed over the envelope he had collected earlier from Carson.

Mathew opened the flap, pulling one pound in coin before carefully counting the remaining contents as was proper for ‘goods in escrow’ – however informal this particular occasion might be.

“Hummm. That’s odd.”

“Mr. Crawley?”

“Sir?”

Now the man’s eyes were sharp – even cutting. This wasn’t the chap that went along with Lady Mary. This was Captain Crawley from the trenches. This was… someone Thomas was quite glad had already pledged to be on his side.

“This note.” Crawley fingered free one bit of paper. “It seems to have…I hardly believe it… but it has bled onto the envelope.”

“Money doesn’t do that.” Thomas was more given to coins than to paper money, but he had dealt in enough to know that much.

“No indeed, Mr. Barrow. Mr. Fitzroy. It very much does not.”

*** *** ***

“Ah Barrow. Fitzroy” Mathew Crawley moved from the window as Thomas Barrow came in. “This is Captain Thomas Beresford.”

“Sir.” Thomas braced. He didn’t need to, he knew, but some things trained into a man lot faster than they trained out.

Thomas was surprised when the stranger stood up. Certainly the man could not be here to meet Thomas, and if he was? Experience of the rank would likely place the man in the seat behind the room’s impressive oak desk. Not that he could really envision this chestless man commanding from over a desk – or indeed from anywhere. He lounged more than stood, draping his weight on the back of a chesterfield. If Thomas was any judge of characters – and he prided himself that he was – he would have taken this chap for the laziest sort of town scrounger. Even his suit was slightly too sharp to be authoritative. That matched well with the yellow roadster (older model – new paint job) they had spotted on the front drive but not with what Thomas would expect from any of Mathew Crawley's associates – military or legal.

“I met this chap during the war.”

“Sir?” He still didn’t understand why he had been summoned. If anything, the matter was becoming less clear by the moment.

“He was with the intelligence services back then.” 

From the tone, this was to be an explanation. From the words? Not so much so.

“Sir.” That was still and always the safe response.

“Look here. You said you didn’t want to involve the local police.” Matthew Crawley paced over to the office. “Tommy here is the alternative.”

Alternative to what? Thomas didn’t expect military police to be any more amiable than the civilian sort.

“Crawley.” Beresford shook of his languor, but only long enough to shift his presence. He chose now to half-sit on the front ledge of the desk. “Good thing you never tried to be a barrister. You’d be pants at arguments.”

The stranger held out his card. “Tommy Beresford – International Detective Agency – private investigations.”

“The card says Theodore Blunt.”

He waved off the question. “Trade name.”

Thomas hadn’t seen a wrist that limp since his last visit to Soho. From his slightly too long blond hair to the bright pattern of his decidedly non-regimental tie, the only thing that kept the man from the flat category of London fairy was the detail that he was trying just too bloody hard at the role.

The whole situation was bizarre, but if Matthew Crawley vouched for the man?

“As you say, sir.”

My old chum tells me you have a bit of a counterfeiting problem.”

“If Mr. Crawley says so.”

He had expected that to be the cause of the meeting. Andy, when he came over with the summons, had said to bring “All the bits. Mr. Crawley, he said you would know what that meant. Which I hope you do because he’s in a mood.” Peter had taken proper warning and had packed literally everything, from the account ledger listing the five pounds received to the evidence of where the note had been.

“Sir.”

“So. Show me.”

Peter passed the bible to Thomas, who in turn held it out for the visitor.

The man grinned. It was the first real animation he had shown. “I’ll swear on it if you like.”

“Not so much.” Peter took the book back from Thomas and quickly flipped to the interesting page. He held it up – open – so everyone could see the stain. “This is where we put the bill. It was drenched from the rain and… it’s not like we own a flower press, now do we?

“OK.” All the town lassitude vanished. “Now I’m inclined to swear at it.”

On the page, sharp as if printed, stood the reverse image of a five-pound note.

“That’s proof of why I called you in.”

“Well done, Matthew. Not that I need such proof. I’ve seen the bills before. Actually – I’ve seen quite a few of them. There has been something of a run of funny money down in London, with the police baffled as to where and how the fake paper is being run. There is a new gang involved, run by a mysterious man known in criminal circles as the Crackler. That’s one of the reasons I was so eager when you called.”

Eager police? Well that was them buggered – and not in a fun way.

Thomas must have been out of practice – that or this was better than good – because the man somehow read the thought from the expression Thomas would have sworn he did not have.

“Not that this is your problem. I mean – neither of you are suspect in any way.”

Wasn’t that even less comfort. He really hadn’t thought they would be. Well not unless the filth were looking to set up a charge, and for that they really wouldn’t need to go and fake a crown case, now would they.

“I know a policeman I can call.”

“No!” Thomas didn’t care if that was rude. This was disaster. He couldn’t get fired if he and Peter were on the first train away from Lancaster shire before the police got here.

“He is a.” Beresford considered more than just his adjective. “He can be trusted.”

Beresford was doing his mind reading trick again.

Peter looked at Thomas, then at Crawley, then last at the newcomer. “No one is that trusted.” No one was safe for them, no one ever, outside the blessed shelter of Downtown.

“Beresford? We really would rather keep this matter in house.” Mathew Crawley angled that under-the-eyebrow look the gentry used in place of actual discretion. “You understand.”

“Well then.” Beresford considered Peter, considered Thomas, and after several moments rested his resolve on the phone. “I can call my wife.”

“What?” Three voices echoed as one.

“Tuppence. She’s… clever.” His left hand raised the phone. “Actually, now that I think of it? Much wiser to call Tuppence than Marriot, if only because my dear spouse would kill me if I let someone else in on the game before she had her shot.”

*** *** *** ***  
“Mr. Crawley. Very kind of you to go to the trouble but I’m not sure we can afford a detective.” Especially if they were on the possible train to points unknown and perhaps even overseas.

Thomas still wasn’t sure what Anna had paid, but he knew the cost of defense had been steep and whatever else may have changed the price couldn’t have come down. Not to mention Mr. Crawley’s friend was a gentleman, however temporary that wartime category might have been.

Mathew Crawley smiled. No, he grinned. “Not your problem Barrow. I’m taking this on contingency.”

“How’s that?”

The grin turned darker, more gifted with teeth. “Standard legal practice. I’ll pay the costs up front and take a portion of any recovery.”

“I shouldn’t’ think even all of five pounds would cover much.” Not even to bring up the bit about the bill being false, and so of less worth than the envelope it had ruined.

“Let that be my problem. If this is the counterfeiting ring old Tommy has been telling me about I think the reward will run to quite a bit more.” His fingers rubbed lovingly over the now-discredited bill. “Besides – none of us want police hunting for mysteries in Downton. They might find something. Then were would we be?” 

He shook his head. “No. Tommy’s working for me. I’m working for… a citizen who prefers not to address the court at this time.” Somehow – and Thomas had enough medical training to know it wasn’t actually possible – the teeth in his grin sharpened. “Your and Peter’s names will be strictly kept out of it.”

*** *** *** ***

“What a fascinating case, Your Grace. I’m so sad we won’t be able to come by Crowborough House until…”

“Darling. It won’t work. They have a shared line.”

Thomas and Peter determinedly did not share a smile at the domestic comedy.

So this was the mysterious wife Beresford had been waiting for. She was… a good match. That was the clearest term Thomas could come up with as a description. 

“Plus it didn’t ring. That’s a dead give away.”

“Lady Mary!” The first woman dropped the phone speaker to reach both hands towards Mary Crawley. “Don’t ruin my game.”

Beresford shrugged. “Tuppence has this trick of speaking to imaginary people when visitors come in. It gives her a chance to observe them, and it excuses any slowness in her greeting.”

“Not to mention that people are always so ready to believe whatever they hear while eavesdropping.”

Side by side one could not help but contrast the two women. Compared to Lady Mary Mrs. B was…well, there was no point of comparison.

In terms of ‘bright young things’ the visitor gave a much sharper sparkle than Lady Rose could have managed at her most determined. Her dark hair was shingled to a razor edge under her cloche. The effect was businesslike but not secretarial. Not even clerical. Her day suit was inexpensive, probably even bought off the rack, but aggressively pinned to this week’s precise mode. All that should have defined her but the clearest impression Thomas had was of her voice. Not so much the accent. She had the same vowels that the Crawleys came by honestly and Peter and he had trained themselves to, but the note was different. The women he knew, or those of the family class, charmed and purred. Mrs. B’s words snapped. The effect wasn’t harsh. She wasn’t mannish. Instead she sounded… syncopated. Like some jazz tune tapped out time behind her mind. 

That was it, Thomas realized suddenly. This lady wasn’t acting a social role; she wasn’t acting modern or acting out or really acting at all. She was, the awareness came suddenly, real.

“Does that actually work? Letting people think you are talking to someone else?” Mary settled by the French windows.

“Brutally reliable, especially if they think they are overhearing something they shouldn’t from someone they couldn’t.”

“Shocking.” Lady Mary did not sound shocked. More like thrilled. Possibly informed.

“Too bad we know all the dukes, and my sister doesn’t like that one. He wouldn’t call here if you threatened him with cold soup.”

All heads turned.

“Lady Edith?” Tommy Beresford stepped forward, hand extended.

Edith turned so Thomas could help with her coat. “I couldn’t help but overhear.”

“Meaning you were listening at the keyhole.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Prudence. I’m a journalist now. We have much better ways to eavesdrop.” Edith claimed the remaining seat. “I was listening from the butler’s pantry.” 

“Delighted to know you take your professional duties so seriously.” Beresford gave her his considering look. “As do I, you understand.”

“Please. I’m not out to bother Thomas and Peter. They’re… well, they are a family matter. Which does not mean I do not expect an exclusive on this thrilling adventure. I do have a magazine to fill.”

“I’m not sure I could break client confidentiality. Certainly not for a penny less than…”

“Don’t be silly, Tommy, darling.” Mrs. Beresford, evidently also named Prudence, split the debate. “Edith is family.”

“Oh. Sorry.” She smiled at the masculine – the confused – section of the company but did not offer her hand. “Prudence Beresford ne Crawley.”

“Barely a Crawley. It wasn’t like you came around.”

“I wasn’t much of a cousin either.” Her red outlined moue was pure theatre, but honest in that it did not try to pass as honest. “The families are vastly distant. Much too separated to get the cash. The only reason we even know each other is that grandfather used to come out hunting.” 

Beresford raised an eyebrow at that. “Your father is a vicar.”

“But his father was a rake. A much better career choice, if you ask me, but not one on offer when I had to earn my way.”

*** *** ***

The ladies had, after lengthy recapitulation of the story, finally been eased out of the working office. Not wanting to also be excluded from discussing the story, the sisters had declined to join Lady Cora and the dowager over the main tea table and had instead chosen to take their refreshment in the breakfast room. It had few virtues as a room, but those failings counted as positive in so far as it gave assurance that no one else would willingly join them.

“Scone, Mrs. Beresford.” Thomas offered.

He was, heaven help him, back in service if not in livery. Peter had volunteered Thomas to lend a hand, what with Carson’s staff resources overwhelmed with the task of serving three separate teas to the various factions currently conspiring within the house. Thomas had acquiesced on terms. He was at least able to stay in his regular uniform rather than having to scramble to find passable livery in Carson’s picked over supply.

“Tuppence, please.” 

“If you insist.” And if hell froze over. Although even then, on the way down to the flames of Gehenna, he suspected he would manage proper address.

“I would adore a scone.” 

She buttered the pastry lavishly. Clearly, Thomas considered, her modern figure did not come via self-starvation.

“So, Tuppence, I gather Matthew and Tommy are planning a frontal assault. All that rushing in and over the top.”

“While we are at tea? Of course, dear Edith. They’d want to spare our delicate feminine nerves.”

Edith checked with Thomas, thinking he might have updated information from his earlier mission delivering the tea tray to Mr. Crawley’s office. Peter was serving there, but could not also bring the tray up from the kitchen. (Mr. Carson was equally unsteady, Andy was serving Lord and Lady Gresham in the small library, and of course none of the maids could be allowed anywhere near table service while there were still male servants of any respectable sort to be conscripted.)

“Not my place to say, Lady Edith, but that is the fine tradition of the British army.”

Tuppence raised her teacup, giving the repost its well-earned salute. “That leaves us perhaps an hour to devise something more rational.”

“Do we have that long? Matthew is… well, I adore him but he can be impulsive.”

“Tommy is the same. I call it too front-facing for his own good.”

“If you will permit, ladies? I will observe that none of the gentlemen have called for keys, either for the automobiles or for the gun cabinets.”

“Quite sharp of you, Barrow.” Lady Mary considered for a bit. “Do you think they would?”

“I could not speak to Mr. Carson’s management of the fire arms, my lady.”

“Careful, I am sure.” She set down her tea cup.

“As you say.” Thomas took his careful time to refill it. “In the matter of the automobiles, however, I can answer. Those are going nowhere unannounced.” At Lady Edith’s surprise he added. “It is not my custom to leave surplus petrol in the tanks. Chemical reaction can degrade rubber connections over time.”

“How very professional of you, Barrow. What a pity that I am never so careful. I picked up a full tank before I arrived.

“Most foresightful, my lady.”

“So, Prudence.”

“Tuppence, dear.” 

“Tuppence.” Edith Crawley set down her fork. “What you don’t know is that I learned to drive during the war.”

“As did I, Edith dear. I was the assigned driver for General Francis Haviland.”

Edith nodded, granting the point. “I also have my own automobile.”

“Do you now?”

“One likely not recognized in the neighborhood, seeing as it was just delivered in London. This is my very first time driving it to Downton.”

Tuppence leaned forward. “Do go on.”

“One suspects such a motor might be excessively likely to break down just as it clears the gates at Haxby Park with two helpless young ladies on board.”

Lady Mary looked confused.

Thomas caught the point instantly. “What did you have in mind, ladies? Carburetor misfire or a flat tire.”

“Tire, I think. We don’t want them suspecting our sincerity.”

“Easily managed, although for safely I suggest I go along and adjust the valve just before the road turns up to the drive.”

“Good point, Barrow. I’d feel much better if my sister had masculine backup.”

“I am quite capable…!”

“Certainly, Lady Edith, but do consider how distressing it would be to get a flat tire on the way to your flat tire.”

“Very well, Thomas. As long as you promise to vanish before we reach the house.”

“Now for the next question.” Mary looked back and forth between the other two. “Who drives?”

“I” Tuppence started. Then she visibly reconsidered. “No. Now that I think on it, Edith, you should drive. I’m much better at fainting.”

**** **** ****  
“That, gentlemen, is our plan of battle. Any questions?” Tommy Beresford stood before a wall of papers, demonstrating the field to Matthew Crawley, Henry Lang, and the new chap who had been hired as second gardener. Andy, to his surprise, was not there. Evidently outdoor staff were considered better suited than footmen for field assaults.

“How do we get to the door?” That was the new gardener. He looked uncertain but at least willing. Lang looked like he wanted to be about anywhere else. In bed by preference. “I’ve got a shovel, but that’s one long trench.”

“We use concealment of approach. Gangsters are bound have guards watching for any hint of the law, but locally the terrain is in our favor.” Beresford turned back to his papers, chief of them the local ordinance map. “If we calculate the probable lines of sight this section of road should be…”

“Your pardon, sirs,” Peter interjected. “You could take the forest path. That’s much shorter, and wide enough you could come up nearly to the house. Poachers used to use it.” Peter did not finish the sentence with ‘as of last week’, for all that he honestly could have. The only reason they were not conducting their business there this week is that - as he had said earlier - Henderson was hiring and harvest work paid better than catching fall rabbits.

“Excellent idea, Fitzroy.”

“We still need to get the door open,” Lang pointed out. “I’ve been over there back when… well, back between then and now… and the place was built solid. I wouldn’t fancy it without artillery, and not very much with.”

“We could always….”

“Sirs?” Peter stepped nearer. “As to a way in? I do wonder how they might respond to a crippled veteran come asking at the back door.”

“If you think you can manage.”

“I’ve got some workable rags in the garage. Where, gentlemen, you should be heading right about now.”

“What?” That was two men out of four.

Peter cupped his ear, catching the fine rumble of a well-tuned motor. “Seeing as how that was your ladies motoring off to Haxby.

Beresford dropped the pointer. “Blast it! Tuppence!”

“With Lady Edith,” Peter confirmed.

“Thomas!”

“He’s following the ladies, Mr. Crawley.” Again, a technical truth, in so far as the rumble seat followed the front.

“Then bloody how…”

Were they to get there? Wasn’t that the question officers were supposed to think on first, and which they so seldom did.

Peter gestured to the parked roadster. “Fortunately Mr. Beresford can also drive.”

**** **** ****  
“Please.” Edith leaned over the door, doing her best to look both displaced and distressed. “Can you help? We’re lost and my friend is sick and I think there is something wrong with the car.”

“Tires flat, miss.”

Which yes, it was indeed, given that Thomas Barrow had let out as much of the air as could be lost and still keep the care movable. Also yes this was the right place, and the right man, since Edith easily matched the flash-suited gorilla talking now with the first ruffian Thomas had described. Part one of the plan was going smoothly. 

The car proper was a two-seater Morris in light maroon. Tuppence has taken one look and declared it perfect for the mission. No one driving so flashy an auto could be less than loaded. 

“Oh dear.” Edith slid from the car, taking care to stumble on the step. She didn’t actually twist her ankle, but if needful she could claim she had. “These modern devices are so confusing. A tire, you say? Is that something on the inside?” She leaned back over to tap the dashboard dials, giving the man behind her the best possible view of… behind her. Just to assure his distraction. “Do you know where I might buy a new one?”

“You don’t need…”

“OOOH…” The moan was kitten-pathetic. 

Bright move, Edith applauded as Tuppence took over distraction duty. The clod might deal on his own with one distressed damsel, but let us see if he could manage two.

Edith clutched her hands under wide eyes. “Please telephone for an ambulance.”

“No, dear Edith. I’ll be fine if I can just rest.” Tuppence gasped.

More like – from the weak tone – after a month at a Swiss sanitarium. Edith made a note to complement her acting and a second note to perhaps take lessons.

Turning to the mobster, she upped the ante. “We should call the police. They can bring a doctor out here.”

“I’m sure I’ll be fine until the ambulance and the officers come.”

“Coppers! No. No. You can’t…”

“Nonsense”. Now it was time for Edith’s lady-of-the-manor side. “I’m sure I can call them from that farm house just down the road. I mean – if you don’t want to lend me your telephone.”

“No. Don’t. I mean.” The man was set back-footed, as intended. “You don’t need to do that.”

“They won’t mind, I’m sure. My friend – Lady Prudence - her father is the Duke of Crowborough.”

“No coppers. I mean” he fumbled again, “You don’t need to call them. Because… Because it will take too long. I mean, miss, my lady, see its like, we’ve got a doctor in the house. He can take a look at her. No need to bother anyone.”

“If you are certain the Doctor won’t mind.”

“I’m real sure he’s rather take care of her himself than bother… authorities.”

So far so good. Now to convince him not to bring the surely-not-actually-a-doctor out here. Could she pretend some more injury? That might be pushing.

“The light. It hurts my eyes.”

And there was Tuppence saving the scene again.

Edith fluttered. She fussed. She opened the other door, just to be busy. 

Tuppence took the occasion to fall halfway out of the car. Her broad silk scarf trailed over Edith in the finest cinema fashion.

“We need to get her into the house.”

“I don’t know miss. My lady. Ma’am. The boss won’t like it.”

“Oh. So bright. It hurts so.”

“Here.” Edith slid an arm under Tuppence, looking as weak as she could. “She must get indoors. Help me.”

Panicked and confused, the man did.

“What the bloody hell.”

Oh, now delightfully obliging of them. Edith suppressed her smile. There came Thomas’s gorilla number two, right as he was beginning to be missed.

“Watch it, Jack.” Thug one gestured with his free hand. “These is ladies. Sick ladies.”

“You’re sick in the head if…”

OH… Tuppence ramped up her performance.

The second man paused, now less confident. “Boss won’t want strangers.”

“They go to town, they tell their story, we get interested neighbors. Boss double won’t want that.”

“Right.” There followed an uneasy moment of clenched knuckles and chewed jaw. “Take ‘em in, then. But they don’t go wandering around and you move them along as soon as she’s standing.”

“Good enough. Laidlaw can drive them to town if he has to. He deals with their type.”

One minute more and the company had removed to a side room just off the entrance. Edith vaguely remembered it as a reception parlor, one of the small sort retained for personages one did not actually intend to receive. She herself, the welcome daughter of a ranking local family, had never been in the room, but she retained vague memories of walking past the open door. Unlike the better rooms where the fashionable furnishings had been removed, be it for reuse or for sale, this chamber still held a sofa and several cabinets. Perhaps the low quality reflected the vulgar taste of the new residents. Perhaps the Haxley’s had considered their outdated furniture worthless in a double sense, unwanted by both themselves and the bulk furnishings market, although if these had ever been to the neighbor’s taste she would have to reconsider their standing as gentlefolk.

“You just rest here and I’ll go fetch Laidlaw. I mean – Doctor Laidlaw.”

Tuppence swooned artistically over the sofa. “I’m feeling better already now that I’m not moving so much.”

“Right.” The man’s discomfort yielded to purpose. “You stay there. I’ll go and… You. You just don’t move.”

*** *** ***  
The second the door lock clicked shut Edith and Tuppence sprang up. Taking a side each they pushed up on the window frame. It was stuck. Edith was ready to swear. She suspected Tuppence did, if under her breath. Then, with a last effort, the glass rose.

“Here.” Edith waved.

Tuppence freed her long driving scarf, draping out the window as a rope.

“Come on, Barrow. Get in. This window weighs a ton.”

Thomas levered his chest though the window. Not the easiest task with one arm weak, but he had help along with motivation.

“Never repaired the sashes, did they?” He noted that the Haxley’s had been sure to strengthen the locks before leaving. That was the gentry for you. Screw the convenience of those inside as long as you could lock the poorer buggers outside. “Keep it a bit more, can you?” he asked.

Leaning out, he held the scarf steady with his worse hand and extended the better to the man below.

“Tommy!” Tuppence exclaimed. “How did you get here?” 

“Saw him coming up the path when I made my way around.” Saw more than just Beresford but this was not the time for checking calling cards.

“Darling! Why did you think…”

“Romance later.” Thomas cut off the domestic. “I spotted two at this side, plus Laidlaw and whoever’s in the rear.”

“Excellent.” Beresford ran a quick survey of the room. “Reasonable numbers.”

“I brought my pistol.” Tuppence offered, producing a derringer.

Thomas took it. “Thank you, my lady.” That wasn’t what she had intended with the comment, but it was most evidently what Beresford approved.

Where the lady had kept the gun in a skirt that short Thomas did not know and preferred not to consider. It was not an area of his interest.

“NO!” Tuppence stamped her foot. “You won’t shut us out.”

“Never, love.” Beresford retrieved the scarf, draping it tenderly over his wife’s shoulders. “I have a cunning plan, darling, one you are a most vital part of. You need to get back to the car and drive off.”

“A plan?” her eyes narrowed. “You’re not just trying to leave me out?”

“Never, dear heart, would I do that. This is tactics.”

The rest was whispered into his wife’s ear.

Tuppence smiled.

“Wait!” Edit pushed Tuppence back to the sofa. That’s the lock. He’s coming back.”

Beresford lifted his pistol. “Thomas, get behind the cabinet. I’ll take the closet. Ladies?”

“OOOOHHHHHH.” Tuppence covered any noise.

“Ladies. You’re up.” The man did not sound like the fact pleased.

“Doctor Laidlaw.” Tuppence collapsed again, this time against his chest. The maneuver let her feel his shoulder holster. What he felt must have been equally interesting, given the sudden red flush on his face, if much softer. She added a wiggle, just to enforce the distraction. “I feel so much better. It must simply have been car sickness.”

Edith took the clue and collected their wraps. “Your father the Duke does say that driving isn’t good for women. We are too fragile.”

Laidlaw tried to maneuver Tuppence to the door. It wasn’t easy given his trouble with just where he was not allowed to put his hands. Clearly Laidlaw had – at least in his youth – been fancied a gentleman.

Gorilla number two didn’t have that problem. He was quite willing to growl at the company, and even to grab Lady Edith by the arm. “Jack pumped up the tire. You should leave now.”

“Thank you so much!” Wiggle number two had Laidlaw three steps back towards the door. “If the rest of you gentlemen could just help me to the car.”

Thomas and Beresford listened as the criminals escorted both ladies to the car, the crew being thanked effusively – and loudly – all the way. Volume was the more significant quality, as it allowed Thomas to slide out behind them unheard.

He took one side of the main door.

Beresford took the other.

They waited – tense as piano wire – until the tone of the motor revved, steadied, and at last softened as the auto and it’s deceptive drivers passed away down the overgrown drive.

Now? Thomas mouthed.

“Now!”

Together they slammed the heavy front doors solidly shut.

From outside came outrage. “What the fuck!”

*** **** ***  
At that same moment a softer pounding sounded at the back door.

“Got a job of work for a poor man down on his luck, guv’nor?” The speaker didn’t look like he could handle much work. Beyond his rags he was thin, stooped, bent-legged, and from the black smudges on face and hand in demonstrable need of a bath. In other words, he stood out from the general population of country beggars only in being the least among his brethren.

“Bugger off.” Inside the door posed an equally unsocial character, for all they were wide opposite in stature. This mans debits included the cauliflower ear of a ruined boxer and two recent scratches decorating his unshaven cheek. His knuckles were swollen, the three fingers remaining to his left hand stiff as they bent around the door.

The beggar slid his crutch between door and frame.

“Could at least offer me a bit of water. I’m a veteran, aint I. Wounded fighting for King and Country, I was.”

“Bugger off, I said, and bugger the bloody king as you go.” He kicked at the crutch, an ill-advised maneuver seeing how it left him off balance when the next man popped up.

Matthew Crawley pumped his shotgun. “That wasn’t very patriotic.”

** **

“So where are they?” Matthew Crawley asked.

Peter searched the rooms. It wasn’t a particularly large area, just one area with a battered looking stove and a worse looking sink and another holding a worn table. That had to be something brought in from the work areas – perhaps from the laundry or even the potting shed. He hadn’t known the Haxby Park servants while they worked here but if from all the other places he had worked? Cook would have poisoned any householder who put a trash piece like that in her kitchen.

Dirty dishes showed that the men had been eating here, although from the few pots he wouldn’t have said eating well. Seven unmatched chairs gave a clue to the numbers. Clearly the seating had been salvaged from the discards abandoned when the casuals had been forced from the barn. The only other furnishing was a trestle backed bench set into the hall wall. It was an old piece, clearly too heavy to move and too aged to have much value. Just now it was serving a purpose, seeing as how Mr. Crawley had tied their man to it, worse luck to him. He wouldn’t be getting away from that,

Peter had a low opinion of the man, even excluding the probable criminality. If he was the cook he was a dreadful one. The stone floor was filthy, muddy prints tracking from the rear yard up to the servants stairs and over to… oh.. that was interesting.

Careful of noise, he signaled Crawley over.

He pointed to the narrow door, one that, from its insignificance and low placement, Peter would expect to lead to a coal cellar or ice room.

“I think they keep the work down there,” he whispered.

“Did you see a window?”

“No, but they might not want one. Not a business where you want the light to show.” 

There was some under the door, but not so bright one would notice from outside. Even the sound of the press, something that should have echoed and clanged, was barely a hum even if Peter pressed his hear to the door. As hide-aways went, this was a pretty solid one. As a trench shelter? Not so much. Soldiers had learned early the mortal necessity of a rear exit.

Crawley nodded agreement.

“Two men up front and this one makes three. That means three more total. Risky in the open, but with only one set of stairs?”

Plus, Peter understood, they had surprise on their side.

Crawley pumped his shotgun, checking both barrels.

Peter grabbed the door, and on the signal pulled it wide. 

He had a brief glimpse of the room; a cramped space filled with the heavy press and stacked crates of papers, before he pulled back to the safety of the wall.

Crawley sent a blast down the narrow stairs. “Hands up, you sons of mothers.”

The two men working below were shocked but not – unfortunately – frozen.

“Rush him!”

The next barrel took out one.

The second man was desperate more than dissuaded. In the second it took to reload he was up the stairs. He swung the ink rod in ever more frantic arcs as Crawley stumbled back. One lucky strike and the shotgun went flying. Now it was a matter of hand to hand, and the odds for were anyone’s guess. Crawley had hight and reach but the counterfeiter was practiced and desperate. Frantically they grappled, rolling on the filthy floor.

Peter slid out. Raising his crutch, he brought it down – thwack – on the gangster’s head.

And then there was quiet.

Afterwards, while binding the men, Peter noted with some satisfaction that the second man had the remnants of many deep scratches on his face and arms. Nice kitty, he thought.

*** *** ***  
Having secured two more prisoners Crawley headed forward to the main battle.

Peter followed.

When they reached the front hall three gangsters, bruised and bloodied much like the earlier kitchen crew, lay bound against the wall. Thomas, Peter was relieved beyond measure to see, was practically untouched.

“So that’s the Crackler’s crew!” Beresford announced with great satisfaction.

“Isn’t there supposed to be one more?” Peter wondered. Seven seats at the table but only six captured? That did not add up. Literally.

“Maybe one went to London?” Matthew Crawley suggested.

*** *** ***

“So this is the brilliant plan?” Lady Edith asked. “We just sit and watch?”

At the other woman’s direction she had driven a long loop down the main drive, turning just past the gate to return by the narrower, and now much overgrown, service road. At the end they sat, hidden by foliage, watching the empty abandon of the ruined rear courtyard. The bareness was depressing. Before, back when the staff used this area, the space would have been broken up by supply chests and drying lines, perhaps even brightened by pots of flowers. All of those conveniences had been removed, salvaged by squatters or just stolen outright. Now there was only a strip of bare clay between the building walls and the shadowed forest.

She shifted in her seat. “I think they just wanted to be rid of us.”

“Likely,” Tuppence agreed. “One would think Tommy would know better by now, but men learn slowly.”

“Especially when it comes to learning what women can do. I am so often frustrated, even in London.”

Tuppence shrugged. “I take it as an advantage. If they saw our abilities they’d be better on guard.”

“Too true.” Edith released the clutch. This was useless. They might as well just drive back to Downton and be done. Her foot just touched the pedal when she felt Tuppence grip her arm.

“Look. The back door. Someone coming out.”

She was right. A small door at the rear was opening, the movement slow as if the operator paused often to check for dangers. As they watched a thin man slid out. 

“Seems the dear boys missed one.”

“What if he’s armed?”

“Not a problem. Well - not unless he sees us first.”

He was not armed, or did not seem to be. Both hands were gripped around the handle of an oversized carpet bag, something loaded enough to encumber his escape but evidently valued enough that not even fear and flight would lure him to abandon it.

Grabbing the wheel, Tuppence stomped hard on the gas.

The motor bounced forward, picking up speed,

“Watch out! You could hit him!”

Tuppence jerked the wheel again.

There was a thump, then a moan.

“That’s the idea.”

Beresford, Crawley, and the rest rushed out, drawn by the noise. It was the work of seconds to secure the injured man.

“Ryder, you scoundrel! It was you!”

“You know the man?” Crawley asked.

Beresford spat. “I thought he was on our side.”

“And now he is on our hood, and the case is solved.”

“Tuppence. Darling.” Beresford took his wife in his arms. “Why did you risk that? Didn’t you remember? We had your pistol.”

“I hardly needed one, darling. Guns are frightening, but a ton of steel has so much more impact.”

** *** *** ****

“Mr. Barrow.” Tuppence stopped at the garage door.

“Mrs. Beresford. I’m sorry, the cars not ready.”

“Why would it be? I’m sure Tommy managed to create much more disaster than can be fixed in an hour. I’m just glad you are taking it on at all. You wouldn’t believe the dreadful garage his friend in London runs.” 

Tuppence stretched, recrossing her legs in a way that intentionally showed off the extensive length of silk stocking. She had changed from her day suit into a tea dress Thomas knew – via word from Anna - had been borrowed from Lady Mary’s closet. Somehow, and this escaped even the trained eye of a valet, the skirt had abridged itself several inches in the transfer.

“Lady Edith is giving us a lift back to London. She says can drive Tommy’s car down when ready.”

Which would be a job of work. Not so much the driving, but the repairs. Maintenance to the roadster would not be just a matter of checking fluids and timing, work that would have to be done before any long trip. The body had suffered in the trip over the Haxley Road. (Perhaps it was the Haxley’s road, or maybe their groundskeepers, or maybe the actual usual poachers. Not that such details mattered. While the path was, in technical terms, sufficient, in that it was in most parts an inch or more wider than the axels, it was still an ungroomed path though forest land. What bits of auto body the rocks had not dented the dry vines had scratched into disaster.) Not to mention that the machine had been a rebuilt mess before going though natures own barbed wire.

Beresford had nearly sworn when he saw the destruction.

Mr. Matthew had instantly volunteered Thomas to mend matters.

Not that Thomas quite minded, if none of the Crawley’s did. He was used to being ‘gifted’ with extra duties as the Crawley’s circle of friends purchased autos faster than they hired drivers. Any little issues they had with their machines tended to call for tea at Downton while the timing was checked in the garage. Beresford, Thomas figured, had a double claim, being both connected by marriage and having sacrificed his machines paint in the interests of justice. (And of getting one back on the bastards who trashed his and Peter’s home. Thumping them had been nostalgically satisfying.)

“OH! Before I forget.” Tuppence flashed a rumpled stack of bills from the carpetbag. Unlike the usual custom of her wardrobe, this item was decidedly oversized. Nearer to a travel satchel than a reticule. She must have kept it in the boot, given that he had not seen it in the house but had shared the rumble seat with it on the way back, but even then he was bemused at how poorly it went with her otherwise fashionable image. Thomas now wondered. Did she make a habit of… collecting things from houses? Or only from the criminal ones? And if she did, what was the best path between betraying the household via theft and annoying the gentry via narking on a relative?

Moving in, she upended the bag on his work bench. More bills fluttered free. Most of them were five-pound notes, he noticed. One or two were higher, and several were lower. Perhaps the counterfeiters had more than one line in trade?

“I suppose I would like a souvenir, even if it’s not real money.” Better gift than a cat. At least funny money wouldn’t eat all the kippers.

Tuppence shrugged – beautifully. “You can have some of those too if you like.”

Thomas took a closer squint at the bills. Several were damp. None seemed… to be leaking.

“So these are?”

“Bank of England.” At his surprise she added: “Ryder was sneaking away with them when I hit him.”

Also – Thomas understood untold – likely under the car after she hit him. Inside the car when she made her way back. Interesting that Ryder hadn’t complained of the loss when arrested. But then? Not like it would be wise to hand over even more evidence of criminal profits.

At his raised eyebrow she added “He wanted to pass fake bills to other people. He took the change in solid ones for himself.”

He picked up one bill. It was a twenty. He hadn’t seen one of those since demob.

“The Crawley’s would say you ought to turn these in.”

“The nobs say all sorts of things no smart girl listens to.”

Quick as a casino dealer she shuffled the money out by type. It made a neat pile, and even in low denominations an impressive haul.

Task done, she split the pile. “My share.”

“I thought the police were paying your husband.”

“That’s between him and them, but as to this? A girl needs something of her own.”

Thomas thought of Peter, thought of how damn hard he worked for so very little, thought of his damaged coat, thought of the long winter coming, and then… he thought she was totally right.

He took the cash.

Dropping the vamp act, Tuppence held out her hand.

They shook on it.

** *** *** ****  
Late that night, warming his feet at the fire and his lap under the bulk of a finally purring cat, Thomas reviewed the week. Not the worst he had been dealt over the years. No one important was wounded, no one he cared about had been arrested, and if he bought a bit of matching cloth he could mend the lining on Peter’s coat. Perhaps he would order a bit more and try his hand at reupholstering their newly ‘acquired’ sofa. (He and Peter had made a second visit to Haxley – just to check for leftovers. The coppers had taken the flash cash and the press, but had paid very little attention to trivia in the form of pots and parlor bits. Thomas, on the other hand, had half of life of being yelled at should he miss any detail. Experience led to sharp eyes, and pots were six pence each if you shopped in Rippon. Their kitchen now had several more. Peter was pleased.)

Not that either of them would risk going on a spree. This wasn’t money to spend – at least not here and not now. They would have to wait a bit, most likely until one of the family wanted a trip to London, before they could slip the only-somewhat-stolen money into their Post Office accounts. Cash in Downton – even in Rippon – would draw attention. That was not – according to Peter – an excuse for careless book keeping.

Peter sat on the other side of the fire, using the light to count out the ‘reward’ money. Each bill was entered meticulously into the household accounting. At the end of his task he looked over at Thomas. “We have to stop getting involved in these adventures.”

Thomas took a deep sip of his house blend. After discussion one of the pound notes had gone to the tea set Peter had been wanting. It was much finer than the random mugs Branson had left behind. More suited to two gentlemen of aesthetic tastes.

He reached out, taking his husband’s hand.

“I don’t know. I don’t think we came out so badly in this one.”


End file.
